


Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

by erde



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Secret Empire, Steve Rogers Feels, Vaguely Optimistic Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-24 05:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erde/pseuds/erde
Summary: They were always close. They could have been holding hands, but they weren't.Steve eventually reaches out to Tony. Even after all that's happened, some things remain the same.





	Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> Written for the prompt _Steve sulks over his guilt by going on a cross-country roadtrip after the events of Secret Empire. What he doesn't expect is seeing Tony Stark waiting for him in his motel room in Middle-of-Nowhere, USA,_ except that there isn't much of a roadtrip and he's not that surprised to see Tony either. Sorry about that.
> 
> The title comes from Wuthering Heights.

He'd been dreaming. Of happier, simpler times. Of pale light, coziness, and laughter.

There's little left of the dream, only a few fragments. Woolen garments brushing against skin. The scent of freshly brewed coffee. In winter, the sea was blue-gray. It was easy to get lost in the vastness of it, to get lost in his eyes. They were close and Tony had whispered something he couldn't remember anymore. They were always close. They could have been holding hands, but they weren't. Then, Steve had woken.

In the here and now, it's still dark outside.

It's been a while since he last held a real conversation with anyone. There's been Sharon over the phone now and then, and then few and far between to give each other space. There's been those he met along the way, kind people for the most part, who lent him a hand in whatever way they could as if he were good, as if all of him were still untainted. 

There's been others too. They're the ones he remembers the most whenever sleep becomes rare. Those too afraid to look at him in the eye, those who blamed him for letting it all happen, those who felt emboldened by the fact that _he_ managed to shape the world in his sick, twisted image, even if it didn't last. A blink in the stream of time, yet it feels like it has slowly pervaded all he touches, all he feels.

"It wasn't you," he tries to say to his own reflection. It's but a mutter, words barely leaving his lips at all, yet it feels like he's crossed a line by trying to claim the forgiveness he hasn't earned. Grimacing, he gives up the ruse and shaves quickly without looking at the mirror again, collecting small nicks and cuts that will heal in no time. His blood is bright red on the tip of his fingers before it thins and disappears under water.

The ghost of a puncture wound crawls over the skin of his neck.

_It was me. Oh God, it was me. For a while, the only me that existed was everything I loathe._

He bites down the urge to scream and closes his eyes. The dream is a faraway memory by now; the comfort it brought him is long gone.

He dries his hands and reaches for his phone on autopilot. If he wanted, he could hear Tony's voice right now. One call, that's all it would take. Tony would be there with him in the blink of an eye, as if he had never left in the first place.

Tony is everywhere.

He imagines that once upon a time, he would have objected. He would have been angry, even, at the thought that the sum of someone's thoughts, feelings, experiences—that Tony, in all his complexity—could be recreated by artificial means, zeros and ones in lieu of a soul. But that's all he has left for now, echoes of him, a mirage that sounds, looks, and moves just like Tony used to do.

Before he can catch himself, he's rubbing his arms up and down as if looking for warmth. He's spent too long on his own, he knows.

It wasn't what he wanted when he first left New York. He wanted to know more _everybodys,_ he wanted to make it up to all the people he had failed while trapped inside what amounted to a little girl's playground. No substance, no flesh and bones, just a memory.

A life's worth of memories brought into being.

It's easy, now, to picture Tony during a lull in the fight, an extensive checklist in hand and each item seen to personally, painstakingly. Of course that he would have left an AI behind in case his mind was needed, his genius, someone to pilot the suit, to sacrifice himself, to save the world.

But what Steve needs is the physicality of him, the small details that made him real, unable to replicate. The way he knows the exact amount of strength it takes to hold Tony down, to carry him in his arms, to help him get back on his feet. "How about that, Tony," Steve says. "Did you account for that?"

The thought is unfair, ugly. But it's also unfair and wrong to wake up to a world where he doesn't have him whole, to come back home and find him missing.

Coming from him, it sounds a little ridiculous. He hasn't had a real home in years. As proof, the few things he carries with him are lined up on the bed. There's a sketchbook made up of mostly empty pages right in the center, and tucked inside the spirals, a pencil stump that might have belonged to Tony once. Their lives used to be intertwined to this point, what's mine is yours, framed pictures on the mantelpiece and hanging from the walls, boundaries happily blurred.

He presses his hand against the sheets to smooth the wrinkles and the mattress yields, unlike glass. 

Steve had only been able to do what _he_ had done, to talk to Tony behind a barrier of glass and metal. The metal was dull and surgically cold under his fingers, nothing like the red and golden warmth of the Iron Man armor, nothing like the warmth of Tony's hands. He had wanted to tell him so many things, and then to pare everything down to the simplest truth. But he couldn't make those words his own, no matter how much he tried.

They had never been lovers, but that hadn't mattered back when everything was simpler, before the lies and the betrayals, before the anger.

Loving him had been easy back then.

 

 

An accident. An explosion. Fire. He's fresh from all of it when he musters up the courage to call him. His breathing is ragged as if he had run hundreds of miles, chasing something constantly out of reach, and he would say it's exhaustion or maybe even his wounds, also fresh enough to dye the bandages at least a pinkish red, but he isn't in pain, not overly.

What he is, is nervous.

_What if he doesn't want to talk to you?_ Steve thinks, and without meaning to, he holds his breath right after he finishes dialing.

He's been told that he saved many lives today. Maybe he did. His clothes smell of smoke and there are ashes below his fingernails, but the memory itself seems distant, a part of the past.

It's not like it's meaningless. Helping others could never be. But it's doesn't feel like enough either. He's out there doing what he used to, but he feels wrong-footed, as if below the appearance of normalcy, something were off. It's in the air. It's inside him. Maybe he never left Pleasant Hill, in a way. Maybe—

There's a click, and then someone says, "Cap."

It's Tony all right, the way he sounds when his faceplate is down and all Steve can see is a set of sleek angles cast in gold. _AI,_ Steve remembers, but the warmth is there all the same. It's in the soft and curious edge to Tony's voice, something so very him that it's easy for Steve to picture his eyes going a little big, lips parted just barely.

"Hey, Tony," Steve says, clearing his throat, and he almost laughs. He still sounds pretty terrible.

"You—are you all right? Is there anything you need?"

_I wanted to hear your voice._

It feels too close to the truth, to the need of having him near no matter what. It used to feel like home. It used to feel like poison. Now it's just something raw, like a sore that the other him prodded again and again with soiled hands, dirty with blood.

He replies with a lie. "I'm fine."

"Steve, what happened? What's wrong?"

_Everything is,_ he wants to say, but even then, a small part of him lights up at the sound of his name, and then at the way Tony knows him well enough to be able to tell the truth. It figures. They were friends for so long. They were comrades in arms and stood at each other's side through thick and thin until one day they simply stopped.

He doesn't know how much of that is left, if the concern on Tony's part is only muscle memory, a leftover from the way they used to be around each other, or even if it's just mere politeness, a token of kindness offered in the name of their past. He's afraid to ask and see it all crumble, to be left with nothing.

"Steve," Tony says, more urgent now, and Steve covers his face with one hand, fingers pressed against his eyelids. He remembers, even if he doesn't want to. He had raised his shield against him once again, but Tony still had wanted to believe that Steve was somewhere inside that monster, that he could reach out to him somehow, that he was worth saving. He swallows hard. His heart is pounding in his chest.

"Really, I'm fine," he says when he's able to find his voice again, and now he sounds rougher than before, but he no longer feels like he's freefalling. "It felt like this was something I needed to do, eventually. To talk to you. It felt overdue."

He's making it sound like he's only doing it out of duty. He's terrible at this.

"It usually is, when it comes to us," Tony says, but it's far from being a reproach. His voice is soft, unguarded. They were standing on the ruins of what used to be their home and it was already too late.

"I wanted to. That's what I'm trying to say." _I needed to. Whenever I was in a funk, talking to you used to set the world to rights, do you remember? God, Tony, did you even know?_ It's another thing gone unsaid, even though he's trying to do the opposite. They might be small secrets, but they are secrets nonetheless. How many more of these are they going to be able to bear?

"I'm sorry," he says instead.

"Steve, you don't have—"

"I _am._ I _have_ to." He knows how he's coming off. Gruff, pig-headed, running low on patience. It's not how he really feels. It's not how he wants to be around him, not anymore. He's just a little desperate. "You know I have to," he says low, and it's more of a plea this time.

"Yes."

"Are you—" Steve starts, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop his head from throbbing. "How are you?"

For a moment, there's only a soft thrum coming from the other side. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting that. It's not a question I get often, you see, especially not now that I'm like this."

Before Steve can apologize for even asking, Tony adds very quietly, "It's like having a phantom body instead of just a limb."

Steve's throat goes dry. "Tony?"

"I've had worse, though. I'm fine," Tony says, and he can almost picture the shrug, the nonchalance. Steve's hand closes into a fist before he reminds himself to force it open. Something must change. It might as well be himself. Maybe if he wants it badly enough, things can be different this time around.

Steve huffs and says, "You used to be better at pretending."

Even through what sounds like the filters of the armor, Tony's laughter is like ringing bells. "I know."

 

 

"No actual resources, I get it. How about intel?"

"Tony."

"A lead, every now and then?"

"All right."

When it comes down to it, he can't refuse him. He finds that he doesn't want to.

 

 

Together, they have put an end to the plans of a few HYDRA cells. They always come back, it's in the name. That's not what's surprising.

Steve was supposed to face the world on his own. That was the idea, at least, but in the end he still has him. They have been at the point of no return far too many times to count and he _still_ has him. He hadn't expected that.

Tony would say that his help amounts to nothing, that it's all Steve. Steve would smile and say that it's all lies.

 

 

The last text says, _At the end of the road, there's a diner. Ask for pie with a good dollop of cream on top._

_Tony, what's this about?_ Steve texts back.

The answer is swift. _Trust me on this one, please._

For once, it isn't strange that he does.

 

 

The waitress slips him a key tag along with the pie. He picks it up and turns it over. The plastic is worn, but the letters are clear enough to make up an address. As soon as he's done eating, he hops onto his bike and takes off.

Middle-of-Nowhere, population a few hundreds shy of four thousand, has a sleepy town quality to it. The streets are wide but sinuous, following the shape of the coast. There are cars parked outside stores and people going about their daily lives, and although it isn't hard to pinpoint the motel once he knows what he's looking for, he takes his time.

The sun is barely shining through the clouds. It's a misty kind of day. 

They assign him the same room that's printed on the tag. He's expected, of course, and the thought makes his heart race. He's hoping for a miracle. Maybe it says something about the kind of man he used to be that there's still some hope left in him.

Peeking from under the door, there's a card. _The chair by the window,_ it reads, and just below, _Hi._

"Tony," Steve says as soon as he enters the room.

In answer, Tony gives him a little wave, fingers curling into his palm almost right away until he lets his hand drop. He looks thinner, eyes a little sunken even if they're still the same shade of blue, and when he removes the cap he had on, Steve realizes his hair has been clipped short.

"I know I made the whole thing seem more mysterious than it was supposed to be. It just occurred to me that you might need, that on the off chance you needed some kind of tech support, especially after the last mission—"

"Your AI," Steve says. "How did you—"

Tony taps his forehead and attempts a smile that falls half-through. "I didn't. He was the one who found a way."

"So you remember."

"Yes," he says, and trust him to know what Steve is talking about without having to say it out loud. 

Tony remembers _him._

Steve is frozen in place. He wants to take a step forward and then the next until he's right at his side, but he doesn't dare. He looks at Tony's hands, at the way his knuckles stick out, at the paleness of his skin. "I was afraid you would never wake up again."

Tony startles at that, as if he wasn't expecting it. "I got better. Hell if I know why. I tampered with my body and something stuck, I guess. It was a one-time get-out-of-jail-free card, though," he says softly, fingertips skimming the top of his head before his hand stills.

_Not clipped but growing,_ Steve thinks, and something cold settles on the pit of his stomach. "Are you really okay?"

"It would seem. I'm here," he says, and there's that shrug again, the one that makes Steve want to take him by the shoulders and make him see he's not expendable, that it matters whether he's alive or not. Of course it does.

"Tony."

"I wanted to see you," Tony says. He's winding his hands, barely holding still, and all the things Steve wanted to say begin to slip away like sand. "I woke up and I wanted to see you."

" _Why_ would you?" Steve snaps, and he's going about it the wrong way, but he can't help it. "You remember him. Why on Earth would you want to?"

"Because you're not him, Steve," Tony says with a stubborn look to match Steve's own. He stands up, and for all that he looks as if every step were taking all of his effort, his grip around Steve's wrist is firm. "You're _not_ him."

They are close enough to breathe each other's air. They could be kissing, but they aren't.

And then they are.

The kiss begins unsure, tentative. He's barely touching him. It's only a brush of lips in case Tony thinks this is the mistake Steve's been trying to convince himself it is, and even though he's holding himself at a distance, it still feels like he's taking advantage of his warmth, of his generosity. He's about to bolt when Tony runs his fingers through his hair in an imitation of that earlier gesture, drawing Steve closer.

_He loved you,_ Steve remembers, and his eyes sting. The voice inside his head is cold and mocking. It's his own voice getting thrown back at him, dripping contempt, but it's not a lie.

He's loved Tony for a long time now.

It's the reason why everything always cut him deeper whenever Tony was involved. It's the reason why it feels like his only hope is for Tony to find something in him that's still worth loving, and he hangs onto that truth like a drowning man.

"Steve," Tony whispers against his temple, always gentle. Steve is shaking a little. Every single touch is a point of budding warmth that spreads inside him and remains.

"Is this okay?" Steve breathes on Tony's skin.

Tony is smiling, his eyes bright. "Yes."

When Steve lifts him, he has to adjust a little. Tony weighs considerably less.

"Bag of bones," Tony says, but Steve doesn't pay him attention. He's busy getting them to bed and trying to undo Tony's shirt all at once, and when he rips one of the buttons in his haste, Tony adds, "I mean it. I'm literally a bag of bones, I'm afraid."

"Quiet," Steve says, and setting him down on his lap, he kisses Tony's collarbone, the sharp angles of him. Tony throws his head back, eyes fluttering closed, and Steve's got him, one hand splayed against the ridges of his spine and another cupping the back of his head, drawing circles a few inches below to ease the knots there.

Tony moans softly, curling against Steve's body like he's starved for it, and Steve revels in the fact that he can touch him, that he can kiss him. He remembers what it was like to be inside Kobik's mind all too keenly, the way he clung to each thread of hope only to see them vanish, torn from the fabric of reality.

This has to be real. It has to. He doesn't know what will become of him if isn't.

"Let me," Tony breathes, and even though his fingers are trembling, he's much better at it. Steve loves him just like this, practical and efficient, pushing Steve's shirt past his shoulders, holding one hand against his stomach so that Steve is lying flat and Tony can work on his belt.

Before Steve knows it, Tony is dropping kisses on his chest, following an invisible pattern. The other him painted HYDRA's insignia right here on his skin, covering his heart. It feels indelible sometimes, an evergrowing patch of darkness that closes over him and leaves him chilled to the bone, but now he can't even feel it. Tony's touch is too genuine for that, too warm. He can hardly believe there's room for tenderness between them. They've hurt each other so badly in the past.

"Hey," Steve says when he comes to himself and notices how Tony's arms are shaking with the effort of having to support his weight. He brushes the pad of his thumb against Tony's scalp and then against his cheek, making him look up. There are droplets of sweat on his forehead. His chest is heaving under Steve's palm.

Tony looks away, embarrassed to be, what, human? Steve's having none of it.

"How about this?" Steve asks with a smile, and then rolls them over as carefully as possible, holding Tony's nape until his head is resting comfortably against the pillows. "Better?"

Tony sighs a yes despite himself. Steve kisses the wrinkles of his brow and the tip of his nose, and finally, Tony chuckles. "Aren't you something?"

It's easier after that. It almost feels like it shouldn't. After all, it's _them._ But then he remembers the good old days, and being this close to Tony, wrapped in warmth, that piece of the past feels like something that he can get back, that he can keep without fearing it will disappear if he isn't careful.

So he lets it happen. He lets himself want this as badly as he always has. He lets Tony's hands roam freely down his back and then back up, trailing his shoulders, and for a moment, he lets himself believe that he deserves it.

 

 

Afterwards, they head for the beach. At this time of the year, it's fairly empty. Other than seagulls, they're the only ones on the shore.

"It wasn't among my plans to convince you to go home," Tony says. "That hasn't changed. I know how important this is to you, so I won't."

Their arms are linked under the pretense that Tony needs the support, but Steve is the one who's standing taller because of it. "No buts?"

The world keeps turning, and somewhere down this very same road, there's a goodbye. They have survived worst things. It shouldn't feel like the end.

"No buts," Tony says, and he looks tired, no longer the kind of peaceful that Steve got to see a couple of hours before. He doesn't know if he would have preferred it if Tony had fought him on this. It's stupid to feel upset about it, to doubt that Tony needs him in the same way that Steve does. "I just—"

He hasn't told Tony that he finds him beautiful. He hasn't even told him that he loves him.

"Stay," Steve says before he loses his courage. "At least for a little while longer."

Later, he'll say that the wait was torturous.

In truth, Tony only considers this for a split of a second before he says yes.


End file.
